Kevin Frisch: On a wing and an overpriced beer

Friday

Sometimes the only thing you’d rather do less than the last thing you want to do in the world, is not do the last thing you want to do in the world. You know what I mean? Well, then, let me explain.

Sometimes the only thing you’d rather do less than the last thing you want to do in the world, is not do the last thing you want to do in the world.

You know what I mean? Well, then, let me explain.

I traveled last month to Chicago on business. This is one of the changes in our company in the past year. When we were family-owned, a corporate venture might require, oh, a drive over to the dining area of Wegmans. Now it means flying to another time zone.

I’ve never been the most casual of flyers but, over the years, I’ve managed to at least become a bit more seasoned. I can walk onto the plane under my own power now, and I almost never need those flight bags anymore.

I didn’t even blanch when I learned I was seated in the MD-80’s bulkhead — the single seat at the very front of the plane that’s across from the area where the flight attendant readies the beverage cart. Said seat offered an all-but-unavoidable view of the flight attendant’s tush as the beverages were being prepared, which would have been a welcome diversion had the flight attendant not been named Ken.

Other than that, the flight proceeded without incident and I soon found myself wandering the terminals at O’Hare International Airport (motto: What’s Your Hurry?).
Several days of corporateness ensued and, before I knew it, it was time to trek home.

Unfortunately, the Flying Gods weren’t in as sunny a mood on this day. Literally. A winter storm was bearing down, and by noon the flakes were already flying. Around lunchtime, I called the travel agency to see whether my flight was still on time. Good thing I checked in, because it was going to be late. Very late. It was canceled.

Fortunately, there was one other flight scheduled to depart for Rochester and, even more fortunately, she was able to get me on it.

Not an auspicious start, but better than being trapped overnight. Perhaps.

The scene at the airport was what you’d expect at one of the nation’s busiest hubs on a particularly snowy day. Long lines. The air a mixture of confusion and desperation. Terminal screens filled with bad news. It’s a little known fact but if you die and are sent to hell, you transfer at O’Hare.

I checked the Departures screen for my flight. There amid the long, red-lettered listings of Delayeds and Canceleds was my flight: 4241 to Rochester. In white letters. On time. I scanned the screens of arrivals. No 4241s. This was good news: If we didn’t have to wait for the plane to arrive from elsewhere, there was a much better chance of getting off the ground. So I thought.

I snaked my way through the ticket counter, came the closest I would the entire trip to having sex in the form of a frisking at the security checkpoint and made my way toward the terminal. It was, by then, an hour later, so I darted to another Departures screen. Flight 4241 to Rochester. On time.

This called for a cocktail.

A pricey one, as it turned out. What is this strange rule where, the more people there are in a venue, the higher the cost for drinks? You go into a bar with only two stools filled, a beer cost you a buck-fifty. You order the same beer at Yankee Stadium — or O’Hare International Airport — and you’re out nine bucks.

No matter. The flakes were flying and the drinks were overpriced, but we were still slated for an on-time departure. Until about 45 minutes before takeoff, when it as announced our gate had changed. Never a good sign. Arriving at the new gate, we learned our flight had been delayed.

This called for another cocktail.

The plane was already here, I wondered, what could be the hold-up? I found out by loitering near the ticket counter. “You’ve got a plane,” I heard the airline rep tell an inquisitive would-be flyer, “but you haven’t got a crew.”

That made sense. If the planes were late getting in, so were the people flying them.
A few delays later and I was pretty much resigned to a night of terminal boredom (get it?) and $9 beers. Then a flight made it in at an adjoining gate. A brief tete-a-tete at the ticket counter and the flight crew made a U-turn and headed up the walkway to our plane. An over-tired flight crew and a blizzard. Thank goodness for those cocktails.

We boarded a short time later and eventually taxied out into the snows. And as we waited for the plane to be de-iced, I had to admit: The prospect of being trapped in a cavernous, quickly crowding airport — they eventually canceled 600 flights — for the next night or two was none too inviting.

The only thing I would rather have done less that night than fly out of O’Hare was not fly out of O’Hare.